Dis quelque chose
by Bebec
Summary: SPOILERS S7E06 - He was sinking. Even further. Even deeper. Every part of his being hit, tortured by the freezing water in which he was tirelessly going down. No more sound could reach him from now on, except for his own deadened sounds while he was struggling against the fierce grip of the dead around his legs. - Jon/Dany POV about the last events. [ABANDONNED]
1. Death is the enemy

_Hi everyone!_

 _Yes, I wanted to write on GOT for once. Some change is always good for us._

 _This little fiction runs through my mind since last week. Since the last episode, all in all. I wanted to adapt some serious scenes from it by detailing Jon and Dany's sensations or thoughts. There'll be several chapters, I think. I'll specify each time the point of view detailed in each chapter, the first two chapters being Jon Snow's POV._

 _It won't be long chapters, not this one, at least. I hope you'll like them. Let a review if you want (it'll help me to see if I'm totally wide of the mark or not, given that it's my first GOT fanfiction)._

 _The characters and story do not belong to me, of course. They come from GOT series (HBO) from the books of G.R.R. Martin._

* * *

Warning - **SPOILERS S7E06!**

Jon's POV for the first chapter.

Happy reading!

* * *

 **DEATH IS THE ENEMY**

* * *

He was sinking.

Even further.

Even deeper.

Every part of his being hit, tortured by the freezing water in which he was tirelessly going down. No more sound could reach him from now on, except for his own deadened sounds while he was struggling against the fierce grip of the dead around his legs.

He could no longer hear the piercing roar of the dragons on either side of the frozen lake. Nor the nightmarish screams of the dead who had constantly attacked them on this insignificant rock of ice.

Neither the ravaging flames, nor the screams, nor the strong breath of wind.

Jon couldn't hear anything, except his own terrified heartbeats.

The brutal touch of the cold against his skin – a cold that he had never felt in his lifetime – took his breath away, his lungs seeming to freeze instantly inside his body. Each part of his anatomy slyly frozen by this stifling freezing embrace.

A sharp embrace, as pleasant as a thousand needles deeply dug into his epidermis could have been.

Jon opened his mouth, his lips letting out a cry deafened by the opaque waters of the lake. He swallowed some of it, his body jumping more against the scrawny and strong hands of the dead who held him. The cold water burned his throat, his heart missing another beat as the young king of the North sank further into the freezing depths.

The few movements he still managed to make into the unwieldy water weakened noticeably, the cold seizing his limbs, his eyes, his thoughts. He couldn't' tell if his eyes were closing or if he was just too far from the top to distinguish any outside lights.

Did it really matter?

He was going to die here. Alone. Far from any living being.

He had already die before. A death filled with solitude, too. Why fear this outcome he already knew?

Death was peaceful.

Easy.

Life was harder. Fighting was harder.

So why keep fighting?

Jon was useless. He couldn't prevent anything, even if he had the will to do it or not. He was nothing but a man. Risen from the dead, of course, but nevertheless a man.

A man unable to protect his people. Unable to protect anyone against the Night King. A man who only could watch Viserion's death.

Helpless. Useless.

Death was easy.

So easy.

He could feel it around him, in that freezing touch. An almost comforting touch now.

 _ **" Death is the enemy. "**_

Jon opened his eyes, as if struck by lightning. Struck by a momentum. A momentum of life, of will. A simple vital momentum. Essential.

 _ **" The enemy always wins. But we still need to fight it..."**_

Fight.

 _Fight._

The young King struggled feebly first, then more fiercely against the grip of the dead around his legs. He could feel, beyond the prickly touch of the water, several bony hands scratching the fur that covered his left thigh. He beat his legs, trying to drive them out while also frantically beating his arms to rise to the surface.

He had to reach the surface.

Reaching Life.

Reaching Daenerys.

Right now.

The dead were still holding him firmly, though. Jon felt his sides, frantically looking for a way to free himself. His sword had fallen not far from the edge. Out of reach, just like the surface and the air that was so missing in this fatal moment. His hand met something hard.

Not a bony hand. Not fur.

Something metallic.

His dagger.

Jon closed his stiff fingers around it, the few sensations remaining in his extremities making him doubt about the success of this action, looking simple or not. Dazzled by cold, pain and lack of air, Jon could only follow his gut. A dim light in the darkness which threatened to submerge him shortly. He pulled the blade out the sheath, slashing roundly the space close to his legs with all the strength of which he was still capable of. The dragon glass blade met something, a cry deafened by the stuffy water resounding beneath him. A cry quickly followed by a slackening of the grip around his leg.

Jon beat arms and legs as fast as possible, his heart thumping painfully against his rib cage with every movement made. He didn't feel anything. Apart from this deafening heartbeat in his chest, in his temples. Just this heartbeat increasingly weaker, in favor of an increasingly violent cold along his body.

 _ **Death is the enemy...**_

Death. Is. The. Enemy.

Every heartbeat, every movement made in this freezing darkness revived this simple sentence in Jon's mind. A sentence that prevent him to give up. To abandon. He couldn't give up now.

Never.

Another movement towards the surface. This distant surface. Almost imaginary in his mind paralyzed by cold and pain. A fragile hope strengthened with each move, with every crossed inch taking Jon Snow away from the depths.

A hope.

Life overcoming Death.

His head finally emerged from the abyssal blackness, the cold air marbling his moist face as he opened his mouth in a desperate gasp eager of air.

The sharp touch of life against death.

Jon expelled the water from his throat, the air rushing into his lungs, intense pain ripping his chest as he struggled to grasp the slippery edge of the icefield in front of him. Each noisy and painful inhalation awakened his senses in the same way as the pain hitherto silenced by the sweltering mass of water around him. The tingling into his limbs became more intense than before, his left hand sliding on the frozen ground. He saw his sword not far from the edge, the pommel - looking like a white wolf – almost taunting him with its blank eyes.

Wheezing, the young King stretched swiftly his right hand towards Longclaw, his trembling fingers closing on the dark handle of the mocking sword.

Closing on this spark of life.

* * *

 _So? What do you think? Good? Not at all?_

 _Time to review! XD_

 _Have a nice day and until next time!_


	2. I didn't give you the permission

_Hello!_

 _Thank you very much for the many reviews, follows and favorites. I didn't think arouse such enthusiasm so quickly and with only one short chapter OO_

 _Thank you!_

 _Being particularly inspired, I've looked at the second chapter and I'm really happy to give it to you today._

 _I forgot to specify, in the previous chapter, that this story was also inspired by a fandom video on YouTube :_ _ **Jon & Daenerys/ Say something (7x06)**_

 _So..._

 _Another chapter with Jon again. Longer and hopefully equally enjoyable to read for you._

 _Next one will be Daenerys POV._

 _Happy reading!_

* * *

 **I DIDN'T GIVE YOU THE PERMISSION TO LEAVE**

* * *

Jon clung to this grip as if his life depended on it.

Which was the case, in itself.

His life depended on this precarious grip around his sword. If he loosened, even for a moment, his fingers around it, death would win.

The Night King would win.

Longclaw's finally wrought guard squealed slowly against the frozen ground as he spun its end to dig it into the snow in front of him. A makeshift grip that, with a bit of luck, would allow him to live a little longer than in the middle of this freezing water.

The whole body numbed by the cold that pierce his skin so easily, Jon quickly approached the edge, a resolute grunt letting out from his blued lips. He continued to dig his fingers from his left hand in the ground while using his makeshift grip to drag himself out of this liquid freezing jail. Inch by inch, Longclaw's guard deeply dug in the ground, Jon began to get back to dry land. He used the little strength he still had in him to drag his lower body, much heavier than before owing to his soaked clothes, far from this lonely death.

He let out another grunt, his face drawn by effort, as he dug more the guard of his sword in the icefield, pulling his body forward.

Out of water.

Out of Death.

Towards Life.

Exhausted, water copiously dripping on the thin snow coat covering the ground, Jon collapsed, running out of steam. The stuffy mass of water which had hitherto surrounded him no longer protected his body from the outside bad weather. A much more brutal cold than that lived in the depths assaulted the skin of his face and his trembling limbs, the thick fur covering his whole body being as useless as a thin sheet of paper.

 _Cold._

He was cold.

It was even beyond that.

Jon knew the cold. More than Southern or the Lords living in the North. He had gone beyond the Wall, surviving extreme temperatures that would have killed a lot of people. He had survived for three days on this rock, surrounded by the dead, with his companions.

Jon Snow knew the cold.

The real Winter.

This Winter that was now inside him.

Strong, brutal, lethal. Seizing every inch of his body, each fragment of his mind with an impressive ease. Whispering to his ears to remain so, his face buried in the snow, unmoving and helpless.

Staying like this.

A moment.

Just a moment.

There was nothing wrong to stay down, wasn't it?

Jon was tired.

So tired...

He no longer felt the northern wind lashing his neck and his hair, turning water into ice pearls along his pale skin and scalp, muzzling his weakened senses in favor of a heavy torpor. Jon frowned, a fragment of his consciousness fighting against the strong numbing that assaulted the rest of his body. A tiny fragment trying to get the upper hand on the whistling tune of the wind around him.

A voice whispering faintly in his ear, to his paralyzed mind.

 _ **" I didn't give you the permission to leave. "**_

Jon frowned more, a spasm crossing his face as he raised it only from a few inches. The northern wind rushed under his throat and under his stiff coat, scratching his epidermis and making him shiver violently against the frozen ground.

Why?

Why her voice? Why these words? Why her face, this imperative intonation did suddenly cross his mind?

Slowly, Jon tightened his numbed fingers around Longclaw's handle, finding into this touch a tie, a link that kept him from driving off into a blissful oblivion brought by the blizzard all around him. The handle squealed once more against the icefield, the young King slowly bringing it before him. Shivering with cold from head to foot, he leant on his left hand, lifting his chest from the frozen ground, which destined him to an expected death. He froze for a moment, dizzy as his breath increased more with this simple movement. The shivers along his limbs got stronger, Jon nearly collapsing once more on the white ground.

 _" Stand up...Stand up, Jon"_

He took a deep breath, bringing his sword before him with trembling gestures. He dug the blade as firmly as possible into the solid snow, squeezing his gloved hand – covered with a thin layer of ice – around the dark handle. He put his left hand on the wolf-shaped pommel, leaning on it to get back on his feet.

 _" Come on...Stand up..."_

Jon let out an enraged grunt. To himself. To the cold. To his weakness, which didn't seem to want to release his numbed limbs. His face drawn by this rage, this fierce resolution, the King in the North pushed more on his legs, firmly standing his feet in the ground. Finally standing up, staggering but nevertheless getting back on his feet, he looked around him. The snowstorm had gained in intensity, preventing him from seeing anything past ten steps. He couldn't tell if the blurry edges of the rocks and bodies around him were due to this bad weather or to his deep exhaustion. Probably both. Two things which could easily bring him down, despite his best efforts to stay alive.

He couldn't help shivering violently, his breath also being punctuated by his serious hypothermia. The storm had swept away every trace of the powerful flames blown by the Queen's dragons, only a few black heats on the frozen lake betraying their presence beyond the Wall.

They were gone, now.

Jon was alone in this storm, the only representative of the human race in this bleak place. He wasn't afraid, though. Knowing the others out of danger...hoping that they were, anyway...muzzled this fear.

They were fine.

She was safe and sound. She _had to_ be safe and sound.

Jon removed his sword from the ground, holding it with his right hand, and put his left arm round his waist. The fur frozen by the cold crackled softly, this noise mingling with the windy tumult around him, as well as his gasping breath. A sharp pain stabbed at his right side, just where his body had hit the ice before sinking. He most likely had some broken ribs. With his left hand on his wounded side, he began a tottering step in the snow. Tiny snowflakes lashed his numbed face, blocking his already severely limited vision.

It was an odd and contradictory sensation.

Jon felt each snowflake against his skin like a white-hot needle. And yet...this painful sensation caused a lack of sense at this level. A kind of numbing pain. Reviving and muzzling his senses simultaneously.

Every step was horribly slow, Jon struggling to – even at this low pace – stand up. He could only rely on his will. A meager resource. He barely noticed the unmoving corpses on the ground, passing them with his unsteady gait without lingering more than necessary. His entire mind was focused on his legs and his shivering breathing. Breathing in, even a tiny part of freezing air, became almost impossible, the muscles of his torso oddly paralyzed by the tenacious cold which assaulted him from everywhere.

" _Move...Keep...m-moving..."_

Keep moving.

He had to keep moving.

Getting to Eastwatch.

A part of his mind, more realistic than the rest, whispered to him this obvious impossibility.

Impossible or not, Jon had to try.

He didn't want to die here.

Gasping for air, he felt his left leg collapsing under his weight, the rest of his body leaning abruptly forward. The King in the North fell on his knees on the snowy ground, his left hand stretched before him to prevent him from collapsing once and for all. He knew deep down that if he collapsed face down, now...He would never get back on his feet again.

And he couldn't allow such a thing.

Jon heard a particular sound not far from him. Not a strong gust brought by this snowstorm. Something more threatening than that. Filthy gurgling noises and hasty steps in his direction. He turned his head and saw a swarming dark mass converging slowly first, then faster, towards him.

The army of the dead.

A part of it, at least.

The young King dug his blade into the ground, using it once more to stand up. He couldn't run. Neither fighting. Jon wasn't stupid. There was no way to defeat this unrelenting troop of putrid corpses. Do nothing, do not struggling wasn't an option. He took a few steps, squeezing his both hands around the handle, the sword trembling from time to time according to his jerky movements.

He waited for death to face him, shivering, but resolute to take as many corpses as possible with him.

They were heading now towards him at a redoubled speed, a hundred meters left between him and this last battle. Their greedy progress reminded him of the migratory flight of the birds before the first temperature drop announcing each new Winter. A fatal flight much less pleasant to watch at this moment. Their nightmarish vociferations became clearer and Jon strengthened his wobbly grip around Longclaw, trying to control the slightest bit the strong tremors along his body.

Fifty meters left.

Fifty meters before the end.

Jon avoided a death to welcome another.

How ironic...

A black horse split the swarming mass of the dead, crushing under its hooves the skull of some under Jon's blankly gaze. The latter saw the dead being thrown to the ground by the belligerent mount, the man sitting astride it sharing this emotion with the same intensity. Galloping quickly and passing the non-coordinated lines of the dead, this hooded person hit tirelessly and nimbly any creature near him thanks to a burning lantern. Every thump going in large luminous circles in the storm before striking even more violently its skeletal and putrid assailants.

Jon felt his last strengths gradually leave him, his vision becoming blurred for a moment as he loosened his grip around his sword, the latter almost touching the ground. He shook his head gently, breathless and watched the mount moving quickly towards him to then pass him. He turned around, unsteady, and stared without a word at this unexpected savior dismounting his horse and quickly walking towards him. The young King tried to step back, on his guards. He lost his balance, staggering back briefly and barely holding Longclaw with one hand.

The man lowering his hood, Jon discovered surprisingly, his uncle's emaciated whitish face, this same uncle presumed dead for years.

How?

— Uncle Benjen?! he exclaimed before staggering further, Benjen wrapping his arm round his shoulders to hold him. H-How...?

Jon felt his body surrender, his legs barely supporting him as his uncle dragged him quickly to his docile mount. He was chattering more violently in reply to the cold that tortured his body.

He could no longer think, move or even talk.

Jon was cold.

So cold...

In an instant, he ended up on the mount, his legs nevertheless refusing to move against the rough sides of the horse. He grabbed the leather strap with his left hand, his chest against the body of the mount, his other hand grabbing as firmly as possible his sword against the saddle. He turned his trembling face to his uncle, the atrocious vociferations of the dead coming closer, while the grave and reassuring voice of the latter barely reached him:

— I'll clear you a path.

Path?

But...

 _No!_

If he stayed here, he...

— C-come...with...m-me... he managed to say, refusing to let his uncle face death for him.

They could run away together.

They could...

Benjen shook his head, refusing his offer by quickly replying:

— There's no time!

Jon tried to hold him back but his uncle immediately moved away from him, preventing him from exchanging other words. He knocked sharply the croup of the mount, which made it rear with a piercing neigh as its body became tight under the King in the North's numbed limbs.

— _**Go!**_ cried Benjen beyond the freezing blast of air around them, bringing the dead in its wake.

Jon then had no choice but holding on tightly to the saddle to not fall. He clenched his fingers as hard as possible around the strap, the edge of his sword resting against the frozen fur that covered his chest. The body shaken by the mad stampede of the horse, his vision becoming more and more blurry, the young King couldn't help looking one last time behind him.

Watching this hazy and definitive view.

This burning dance flooring the dead one last time, soon buried in its turn by the Long Night. Looking at the First Patroller's last watch beyond the Wall.

 _" My watch is ended..."_

Jon felt his eyes close, against his will or not. Covering up the cold and the pain.

Covering up this latest vision.

He let himself go against the strong body of the mount, its rough hair against his freezing cheek being the last thing he felt before succumb, too.

Finally welcoming the Long Night.

* * *

 _Thanks again for reading me. You can let a review: it's really appreciated and it motivates me!_

 _Next chapter will probably come later. I have other stories to write for Lucifer first. I have seen the last episode so...much chapters for this stories XD_

 _Bye!_


	3. A figure of speech

_Hi !_

 _Finally the new chapter! Sorry! I'm pretty busy ^^'_

 _And sorry if there are some mistakes, I'm really sick and not really focused._

 _Anyway, I hope you'll like this chapter with Danny ;)_

 _Let a little review as always!_

* * *

 **A FIGURE OF SPEECH**

* * *

Taking a knife in the heart.

This phrase could be as much a figure of speech as a more literal description of her physical condition.

Two meanings – literal or figurative – that Daenerys was enduring at the same time.

There was no injury, strictly speaking. No bloody wound staining her white coat. Nothing. Nothing so obvious. No literal version of this expression of the common language. However, the pain that was piercing her chest was too real, too strong to fully accept the figurative meaning of this sentence.

Figure of speech or not, the young queen's pain was right there. Tangible in her mind, in her body leaning on her biggest and more robust child's one.

She had taken a knife in the heart.

No matter what interpretation could be given to this sensation which hadn't left her since what seemed to be an eternity to her.

Since that howl that had suspended time, which had torn her heart and mind. A howl of distress truly horrifying to hear. This distress, from her child's one. From Viserion.

A scream. Lengthy. Violent. And definitive.

Daenerys looked to her left, Rhaegal following the strong flight of his brother to the Wall, screaming from time to time in the icy air a complaint that make the queen's heart bleed more. Their mother's heart. The latter stopped looking at Rhaegal to look to her right, then seeing only below a white and wild landscape as far as the eye can see. A lifeless landscape. Devoid of her child's presence.

Of Viserion's presence.

 _Viserion._

Leaning against Drogon's rough and dark scales, Daenerys couldn't help her mind – and her heart, invariably – from turning this scene over. Again. And again, and again...

This scream, again.

This death throes, again.

This helplessness, again.

This fall on that frozen stretch, over and over again.

Fire annihilated by Ice.

 _Annihilated._

Daenerys tightened her grip around Drogon's back spines, holding to it to avoid sinking with the implication of that single thought. Of that single word.

Annihilation. Disappearance. Extinction. Death...

Death.

Viserion was... _dead_. Her child was gone.

The young woman would never again hear his howling pierce the sky as easily as a sword pierced the flesh. She would no longer stroke his scaly skin with magnificent green shades. She would never see him flying in the heavens alongside his brothers.

That was how death went.

 _Valar morghulis._

Every man must die.

But Viserion wasn't a man. Viserion was a dragon. _Her_ child. A child couldn't die. His mother definitely shouldn't survive him. This situation, this reality seemed beyond belief. For her.

For a mother.

Not any parent could imagine and accept, when the time came, their child's loss. Regardless of the undeniable reality that hit them body and soul. The love that a parent unconditionally had to their own flesh and blood stopped this simple notion. For a time. A time too short. Then all hope disappeared, buried beneath a mountain of pain more devastating than anything they could have endured during their existence.

Impaled by this knife in the heart. _Her_ heart.

A lethal knife held by this icy creature, devoid of compassion or even a mere emotion apart from destruction. Held by The Knight King. A terrifying physical realization of Death itself, encircled by its servants. The Night King had hit Viserion without the slightest hesitation, striking consequently Daenerys's heart at the same time. Tearing life away from one of her children. Tearing implacably a part of her own life away from her.

And making grow, inside her heart, something she hadn't felt for a very long time.

Fear.

Daenerys, beyond this shooting pain in her chest, could sense the fear running from her wounded heart, surrounding her muscles, partially petrifying her limbs, inch by inch. Slowly, fear joined pain, trying to bend the young queen's will and strength. Striving to stifle all light, all fire running in her veins. All hope persisting in her.

Yes, Daenerys was afraid.

She feared what was gaining ground beyond the Wall, in the Real North. She feared this Night King, these White Walkers and the army of the dead.

She greatly feared all this. This danger that this vile and indifferent being represented to her, to the men, to her dragons ,…

She feared this defeat. More than all the others she had lived so far. Only this defeat really mattered. Only the Night King mattered.

This King, whose she still denied the existence a few weeks ago. A time of ignorance she nearly regretted. An ignorance spared by this actual pain. This loss. She could no longer feign ignorance, now. The danger was real. Just as was the Night King and Death behind his frozen path.

All this was real. As real as the pain tormenting her body. As real as Viserion's demise or Jon's.

Jon...

 _ **" Go! "**_

He was missing, too.

 _ **" Go! Leave! Now! "**_

Anger mingled with fear, her hands tensing around Drogon's dorsal spines, her face leaving the sweetness of despair for a much more definite expression. Why had Jon had to move away? Why had he so much desired to annihilate with his sword all the dead present on the frozen lake? It was stupid. And an attitude most likely predictable to the hero he was.

 _ **" Heroes do stupid things and they die. "**_

Jon Snow... _dead_.

Was he?

Dead?

Daenerys had seen it and couldn't accept what her eyes had seen then. She'd seen him running to join them, the flames dancing furiously on the ice and tirelessly lapping the putrid flesh of the dead who stood in his way. Who stood between her and him. She had seen him fall, disappearing into the murky waters without being able to try anything to help him. Daenerys had seen the Night King, threatening once more her children's lives and theirs.

She'd seen a choice.

Leaving as Jon had yelled it to her... or stay.

And she was left.

She had abandoned Jon Snow to death.

No.

He couldn't be dead. Daenerys couldn't accept this possibility. No more than her child's loss.

Why? Why was she so shaken by the King in the North's absence near her? Why was she angry with him? His disappearance was certainly annoying, but not as dramatic as her heart seemed to shout her inside.

Daenerys had seen so many heroes in her life.

Drogo, Jorah, Daario,…

All heroes.

As Jon Snow.

And all fools. As Jon Snow.

She'd seen so many heroes... and so many deaths.

Why this one would be any different? Why would it be intolerable?

Drogon's strong body moved significantly under her, starting his descent to the ground. Far from the dead, far from Jon: bringing the queen back to the present moment. Tormented internally by what had happened and what she could have done or not to avoid it, the young woman had eclipsed the rest of the world around her, so much so that she only heard now the breath of air along the black wings of the dragon going towards the beach. This knife in her heart had secluded her: it was time for her to take it up again, and so, to take more the shooting pain that was impaling her soul.

Daenerys leaned over Drogon's neck, following his movements in the windy whistle, focusing on each roll of muscles under her thighs, each acceleration of the latter before he landed heavily on the dark ground lapped by the waves of ice, not far from Eastwatch's door built in the solid structure of the Wall which stretched infinitely. She vaguely heard one of her passengers swear heartily after Drogon had reached the dry land, also perceiving the erratic movements of the dead put on one of her child's spines. Its unhuman cries could be heard over the gentle grunt of the dragon beneath her, tormenting more the young queen, if it was still possible. A cry more piercing than the others resounded behind her as the Hound kicked violently the ribs of the creature in an advanced state of decomposition.

" Shut the hell up! Fucking skunk... "

Daenerys distractedly stroked Drogon's massive neck, seeking comfort and strength to continue in that gesture. She stood so, almost stubbornly stroking the rough, scaly skin of her gloved hand as Dondarrion and the Hound strove to remove the dead from its makeshift cell.

" Your Grace... "

The latter closed her eyes briefly when she heard her friend's careful tone. An intonation that only strengthened this pain inside her, that only pushed further the sharp blade in her heart bleed from any hope. An insinuation of compassion, very laudable of course, but that she didn't want to hear from Jorah's mouth. Neither from anyone else. Daenerys opened her eyes, ordering without turning and with a hesitant voice:

" Sir Jorah... Make sure this _thing_ is carried properly aboard my ship. "

She felt the latter hesitate, the young queen could easily imagine his concerned eyes scrutinizing her own silhouette before nodding imperceptibly.

" Yes, Your Grace. ", he said without insisting more than that.

She waited for him to join Clegane, the latter heartily cursing the scrawny creature of insults, each one more original than the one before, Daenerys inhaling deeply before going down with ease along Drogon's wing stretched on the beach.

" You have fit men on that boat? ", asked the man named Tormund to the three others.

Daenerys walked away, making few steps and no knowing where to go to stop thinking... or even to stop feeling anything. A few steps definitely wouldn't stifle her grief or the threat to come. She listened distractedly to the exchange between the companions, staring at the black shingles squealing under her white boots without really seeing them.

" What the fuck you care?! ", replied the Hound roughly between two shrill cries of the dead he was trying to hold on the ground, Jorah then descending along Drogon's wing.

" Have you or not? "

" We have, indeed. ", answered Sir Jorah. " Why? "

" I don't have enough men to keep the Wall... Even less so to drag Snow's ass and bring him back here. They could be useful! "

Daenerys then turned sharply in his direction, her wounded heart fiercely drumming in her chest as she stared intensely at the wildling with red mane. They all stared at him without saying a word. For a time, at least. The Hound was the first to break their common stupefaction retreated into silence.

" That's the many cocks you've sucked since you were born that made you nut?! Snow is dead! I hope so, for him...' Better die frozen then join these bastards... "

He illustrated his comments by kicking the ribs of the bastard in question again, the latter shouting again its rage without life. Tormund placed the handle of his huge axe against his shoulder, smiling to the Hound.

" Snow isn't dead. Not this time. I'll look for him...Nothing forces you to come with me. You've the right to be scared stiff. "

" I want to live! ", replied Clegane, annoyed. " I'm not scared stiff! "

" You're fucking scared stiff! Just like me, them... ", he said, pointing with his axe to Jorah and Dondarrion before turning slowly to Daenerys. " Even you, The Dragon's Queen...you're fucking scared stiff. "

She remained silent, in no way denying the confident statement of the wildling. She couldn't deny the truth that struck them all at that precise moment. She was afraid, of course. How being not afraid of death? Whether we should die one day or another, it didn't take away from us that fear which tortured us all and all along our live in the waiting of this common conclusion for all.

Every man must die.

Every man experience fear.

The wildling turned to his companions again, freeing Daenerys from his sharp gaze that could so easily see beyond her calm expression.

" We're all scared stiff, here. And it's fine...Everyone should be. But I won't let Jon freeze his ass off behind the Wall either! He was scared stiff too when he came help us to Hardhome, when the dead rushed over us and killed my people...He was fucking scared. And he stayed. He fought the dead, the White Walkers... even if he wanted to run like the others with his tail between his legs! 'The hell I would do the same right now...but I won't leave him! "

Tormund didn't wait any answer or another vehement protest from the other people gathered around Drogon. He walked hastily towards the small boat moored on the beach one meter from their actual position, seemingly determined to take with him some rash men loyal to the King in the North. Determined to find the latter alive, obviously.

Daenerys squeezed her hands together, painfully squeezing that hope between her fingers numbed by the cold despite her thick gloves. She shouldn't hope the impossible. She couldn't allow herself to hope. She was queen. The queens didn't vainly give way to frivolous and unreasonable hopes when death threatened shortly to hit the rest of the world. She couldn't hope. No matter this tiny hope was almost prevented her to breathe right now. Hope couldn't fight reality. And the reality was shouting loud and clear Viserion's and the King in the North's death.

Daenerys had to accept it.

She saw Dondarrion turning to Clegane without a word, staring at knowingly and annoying thus the latter who muttered once more some insults. The Hound glared at his one-eyed friend, threatening him roughly:

" If you give me that crap about the Lord of Light one more time, I swear to thrust your damned sword in your asshole and light your fucking guts with it! "

" Our mission isn't finished yet, my friend. "

" 'Mine is! ", The Hound replied instantly, placing the dead on his shoulder, grimacing from time to time when it moved too much. " Go ahead, if you want...but no one'll bring you back this time! I'm fine with it... "

Upon these words, Clegane also walked away hastily from the dragon, Dondarrion laughing softly behind him as he followed the latter, making sure to salute summarily the queen and Mormont on his way.

" May the Light guide you in the darkness, Your Grace... "

Daenerys gave him a forced smile and nodded. Jorah stood beside her and Drogon, watching the two men gradually moved towards the small boat before coming closer to her. Drogon stretched his wings, causing by this simple gesture a strong gust that make the young queen shiver. He rose in the gray and icy skies of the North, joining Rhaegal with in complaints and his desperate search for their missing brother. She watched them for a moment, letting her mind wander according to their own celestial gestures above her.

" Your Grace... ", Mormont tried once more.

" I'm gonna stay here a moment, Sir Jorah. ", she interrupted him with authority. " Drogon needs to rest, so do I. Be sure to the haulage of this creature and let me know as soon as we're ready to leave for King's Landing. "

" As you wish, My Queen. "

She went without a word to the huge door of Eastwatch, not knowing what else to do to stifle her grief, to stifle this hope which never ceased to vibrate inside her. A vibration only strengthening her initial grief.

 _" Valar morghulis... "_ , she whispered in a trembling voice as she walked slowly towards the thousand-year-old rampart.

* * *

Daenerys jumped slightly as she heard the strong grinding noise of the wooden cogs, the door of the elevator rising slowly in front of her and bringing with it another icy gust. She waited for the door to rise totally, then quickly advancing on the path dug in the massive structure given by the Wall. Several wildlings and brothers of the Night Watch stared at her inquisitively in her path, these men being aware of what was going on in the South enough to put a name and a reputation on her face. Some of them gave her a brief nod as a reverent salutation while the others stared at her more fearfully before going back to their own business.

For either of them, Daenerys was satisfied.

She hadn't come to this high place and separate from the rest of the world for anything else but the satisfaction of her need of solitude.

So, she advanced, barely paying attention to the men around her, the latter becoming less and less present as she was progressing further on this path born from pickaxes and ice. The young queen arrived in a secluded lookout, a basic roof covered with snow sheltering its occasional occupant as far as possible.

Daenerys stopped there, somewhat breathless after her walk and the fresh air piercing the inside of her throat, and came closer to the wooden barrier, scrutinizing the white landscape going as far as the eye could see.

The North.

Wild.

Independent and proud.

The real North, according to Jon Snow.

 _ **" If I don't return, at least you won't have to deal with the King in the North anymore. "**_

 _ **" I've grown used to him... "**_

Drogon's plaintive cry resounded in the skies and she raised her eyes, seeing her dragon tracing big circles between the Wall and the forest that was not far from it, then replaced by the icy and sharp mounts of the Far North. He cried. Over and over again. Tirelessly looking for his brother's trace in the skies, looking for the impossible.

Just as Daenerys was looking for the impossible by her gaze on the border of the forest, seeking vainly a hope that would never be granted to her. Why was she still hoping? What was she waiting for? There was only death as far as the eye could see. Nothing else would grow there.

Only death.

Daenerys closed her eyes before opening them again, deeply inhaling the icy air as she continued to look at the horizon. She had accomplished so many things, defied the impossible on many occasions...

This impossible seemed insurmountable, unbending.

Bringing three dragons into the world, surviving of the flames of an inferno, uniting the Unsealed, the Dothrakis... All this was nothing in front of the Night King. A legend straight from Forgotten Tales of Westeros. She knew nothing about him, or very little from some unclear childhood memories of the myths told by her nannies or by Vyseris.

The Long Night.

 _" The Long Night is coming. Only the Prince that was promised could bring the Dawn. "_

The prince... or the princess.

How could she fight this monster of ice? This monster that so easily brought one of her dragons down? A monster she knew nothing about.

Jon Snow knew. He knew much more than she'd ever known over a lifetime.

And he was gone.

She was alone, now. An evidence that was hitting her more as the sky darkened and as the air cooled, the northern landscape remaining unshakeable in front of her. Unchanged in the rising storm that was lashing her face.

The frozen floor of the shelter creaked behind her. The young queen turned over and shared a look with Jorah, both not daring to tell the other this evidence that was hitting them such violently as the breath of wind. She turned over, scrutinizing once more the wild landscape become unclear by the increased snowfall around her. Stubbornly scrutinizing this hope which was gradually erased inside her bruised heart.

It took a long time, perhaps less than that, before Mormont approached her, unwilling to be the messenger of this reality which was taunting her tirelessly.

" It's time to go, Your Grace. "

It was time, indeed. Her reason knew that. Daenerys perfectly knew that the time was come to definitely squash this pointless hope, this ridiculous bravado against the impossible. It was time to let Vyserion behind. To let the King in the North behind. To let any hope at the top of the Wall.

She knew that and yet couldn't do it.

Not yet.

" A bit longer... ", she said without turning, pressing her hands together in a silent and foolish prayer.

Once again, Jorah didn't insist, respecting her grief. He stepped backwards, leaving the shelter and waiting patiently for his queen to regain footing in the reality and the war to come. The intensity in her eyes could have ignited the whole forest and even the whole world, the fierce desire to make the impossible possible glowing in her irises. An ardor to which the North was indifferent.

Nothing came. No hope. No miracle.

Only the reality.

Only the nothingness.

Daenerys was clinging on this hope so long that it was now ridiculous. She was no longer a child. She was a queen. _The_ Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She had to give up this wavering glimmer and focus on the events to come. On the livings.

She sighed and turned her back to the North, making a few slow steps towards Jorah. The sound of a foghorn broke the silence around them without making her slow, the queen being then quite unaware of what could happen near her. Daenerys froze nevertheless, intrigued by her friend's behavior, Jorah simply staying frozen in front of the lookout, his eyes staring at a precise point below. He made a step, then another into the shelter, the queen following him thoughtlessly. She tried to ignore the sharp heartbeats in her chest revived by another stupid momentum of hope.

A powerful and painful internal ringing that almost stifled her as her eyes looked in turn at this point emerging from the edge of the forest.

A ringing that covered the wildling's orders and the scraping of the door in the Wall.

A ringing beating in unison of this vision.

Of this impossible.

The impossible return of the King in the North.

Of Jon Snow.

* * *

 **TBC**

* * *

Thanks for your support! Next chapter will be POV dany,too.

Bye!


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